'Just for a moment, Heriot. Please let me go for a moment. I will come presently.'
'You are not to be trusted,' he replied, not leaving hold of her. 'Do you think this excitement is good for Roy—that in his state he can bear it. He has been dressed and waiting for you for hours. You must think of him, Polly, not of yourself.' And Polly resisted no longer.
She followed Dr. Heriot, with downcast eyes, into the studio. Roy was not on his couch; he was standing on the rug, in his velvet coat; one thin hand grasped the mantelpiece nervously: the other was stretched out to Polly.
'You must not let him excite himself,' was Dr. Heriot's warning, as he left them together.
Poor Polly, she stood irresolute, not daring to advance, or look up, and wishing that the ground would swallow her.
'Polly—dear Polly—will you not come to me?' and Roy walked feebly to meet her. Before she could move or answer, his arms were round her. 'My Polly—my own now,' he cried, rapturously pressing her to him with weak force; 'Heriot has given you to me.'
Polly looked up at her young lover shyly. Roy's face was flushed, his eyes were shining with happiness, a half-proud, half-humble expression lingered round his mouth; the arm that supported her trembled with weakness.
'Oh, Rex, how wrong of me to let you stand,' she said, waking up from her bewilderment; 'you must lie down, and I will take my old place beside you.'
'Yes, he has given you the right to nurse me now,' whispered Roy, as she arranged the cushions under his head. 'I am more than your adopted brother now.' And Polly's happy blush was her only answer.
'You will never refuse to sing to me again?' he said presently, when their agitation had a little subsided.